


Day 25: Discontent

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [25]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Depression, I'm the world's worst tagger, Loveless Marriage, M/M, The Author Regrets Everything, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard often thought of his children in moments like these, when his bones felt hollow and his skin was fragile.</p><p>inspired by <a href="http://lorien-leaf.tumblr.com/post/133735106060/what-if-thranduil-and-bard-were-lovers-but-not">this post</a> by <a href="http://lorien-leaf.tumblr.com/">lorien-leaf</a> on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 25: Discontent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorien_leaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorien_leaf/gifts).



> I need to stop working. I need to never go to work again. I'm exhausted and I can't finish this piece today. I can barely even string these words together, it's a miracle I'm still awake. I'm really sorry.
> 
> I don't know what it is, but my brain is just stuck on divorce. it's a little bit of a bummer, I know. this is part one of two and we'll see a much happier Bard tomorrow. 
> 
> a special thank you to Lorien_Leaf for letting me run with this idea! 
> 
> you guys! only five days left!

Bard’s happiest memories were of his kids. Like the day Sigrid was born. He couldn’t remember ever being happier than the moment he held her for the first time, bright red and screaming and absolutely perfect. He felt clumsy and too large as her tiny fingers gripped his finger. He didn’t want to ever let her go. 

Bard often thought of his children in moments like these, when his bones felt hollow and his skin was fragile. Sigrid and Bain and Tilda. Their rosy cheeks and wide smiles as they all played together in the garden during the first snow of the season. Sigrid’s expression in the bathroom mirror the first time he’d tried to plait her hair. Bain running out to meet him after his first day of school. Tilda instructing him on the _right_ way to tell a bedtime story. 

But now the house was empty. He sat in silence on the couch and wondered when these memories had become his _only_ happy thoughts. He could remember how Sigrid and Bain had helped Tilda blow out the candles on her first birthday. He remembered it had been only the four of them— Gwen had stayed late at the office to prepare for a case. All of his good memories were tinged with her absence. Back then, it had made Bard angry. 

Now he felt nothing. 

He felt less than nothing. Where there used to be anger or joy or sadness there was only empty space. Like there was nothing left of him— like his chest might collapse under the weight of the air in the house. Their house. 

He made tea, but the mug sat on a coaster until it went cold.

⨕

When Tilda was two, Bard had tried to leave. He’d sat on the bed, hands on his knees and eyes trained on the carpet while Gwen had packed for a business trip. His voice had been flat and hollow, nearly a whisper when he’d first said it. “I want a divorce.”

He’d had to repeat himself twice more, each time getting braver, his voice getting louder until finally, she’d stopped her pacing. “Why?” She’d asked.

Bard had thought to laugh, but he’d had neither the humour nor the spite for it. They were miserable, he’d said. She hadn’t looked him in the eye for months. She cared more about work than she did about being home for dinner. He’d asked her if she was happy, if she even loved him anymore. 

She hadn’t been able to give him a straight answer. She’d called him daft and zipped her suitcase. “What do you want from me?”

“I want my wife back,” the words had torn at his throat and drawn tears from his eyes. “I want to see you smile at me again. I want to feel like there’s a person sleeping beside me when you’re there. I want—“ 

“You want something that doesn’t exist! It’s a fantasy, Bard.” 

He’d reined himself in, then, had let the bitterness and the hurt leave when he said, “The kids and I won’t be here when you get back.” He hadn’t tried to stop her, hadn’t tried to convince her to stay. It hadn’t been a threat. It had been a dare. “You’ll come home to an empty house and divorce papers.” It would be poetic, he’d thought, after all the times he’d come home to find a note on the nightstand in place of the woman he’d married.

She had laughed at him. “You try, and you’ll never see your kids again.” Her voice had been level, caustic and deadly, and she’d hit her mark with all the force of a kick to the gut. 

Then she’d left to catch her plane, not bothering to say goodbye to Sigrid and Bain where they’d peered through the cracks of their bedroom door.

⨕

“Da,” Sigrid asked from her seat at the dining room table.

“Hmm?” It was a Thursday and Bard was heating up cans of ravioli for supper.

“Is Mum coming to Parents’ night?” 

“I don’t think so, love.” He could hear Sigrid sigh from across the kitchen. “But I’ll be there,” He made his voice light and didn’t bother to lie. “You can show me the chem lab and point out your PE teacher so I can be sure to mention your asthma.” He crossed through the kitchen and into the dining room, leaning to press a kiss to her hair. “Okay?” 

“Okay,”

Supper was a quick thing, over nearly before it began, but Bard was still running late. He left Bain with instructions to have Tilda in bed by eight and to lock the door behind him. When he and Sigrid reached the school, he had to circle the car park to find a spot, and still ended up parking on the grass like Sigrid suggested. 

He explained to her PE teacher why she couldn’t participate in team sports (it wasn’t _technically_ a lie— she had been diagnosed with asthma as a child), and admired the perfect score she’d received on the research assignment displayed on the cork board. Sigrid barely noticed that her mum wasn’t there. Bard barely noticed, either. 

The canteen was packed with students and parents, all holding biscuits and punch and chatting. Sigrid immediately found a friend, leaving Bard to stand by the wall with his paper plate. He wasn’t alone for long. 

“Bard!” Bilbo called from beyond the biscuit table. He edged his way along the wall until he was close enough to be heard without shouting. “I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you? How are the kids?” 

“They’re good,” Bard replied. It wasn’t that the response was untrue, so much as it was automatic. _”How are the kids?” —“Good.” —“How’s your wife? —“Good.” —“How are you?”_ Here, Bard would choke down the truth, force a smile and say, _”Fine.”_

“Good, good.” He clapped Bard’s shoulder and launched into a story about what his nephew had told him about the classics teacher and the headmaster. Bard nibbled his biscuits, smiling and laughing at the appropriate intervals without paying much attention.

“Ah, look, there he is.” Bilbo called to someone across the canteen and Bard watched as the crowd parted to allow a man through. 

His hair was long and straight, draping over one shoulder and shining brightly even under the fluorescent lights. He was tall. Very tall, Bard realized as he drew closer. His suit was crisp and clean, accentuating his long limbs. Even without his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, he made Bard feel severely underdressed in his worn jeans and flannel shirt.

“Thranduil, this is Bard. His daughter is in chemistry and history with Frodo and Legolas.” 

“How d’you do?” Thranduil offered his hand and a warm grin.

“Hi,” Bard smiled in return. “Fine—“ Bard shook the automatic response from his head. “I mean, I’m good. How are you?” 

“Good,” the man laughed.

“Thranduil is a curator at the National Gallery in London.” 

“Wow,” Bard said. “That must be… wow.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil laughed. “Wow, indeed. We’ve just had a second Van Gogh piece shipped in from Amsterdam for our new exhibit. Have you ever seen his work up close?” 

Bard shook his head. “I’ve not been to a museum since… god, since before Sigrid was born.” The realization struck him square in the chest. He thought he could feel it vibrate and echo inside his ribs. 

“No? You should come! The exhibit opens tomorrow night. Bring your wife if you like.” Bilbo excused himself and crossed the canteen to find his husband by the biscuits while Bard stuttered his reply.

“Oh, no, she um…” Gwen hated art— found it dull and purposefully obtuse. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the smile had gone from Thranduil’s face, replaced by an old and hardened sadness Bard would recognize anywhere. He saw the same expression in the mirror, often enough.

“It’s not that,” he said. The words sounded like a plea on his lips. He wanted to say that his wife had become a stranger to him, that he’d never felt more distant from anyone in all his life, that sometimes it was easier to pretend he really was a single father, that he was doing this alone, that he had no hope for finding anyone waiting for him at home. But he didn’t have adequate words to explain that it wasn’t his house or his bed that felt empty— it was _him_. He tamped down the wave of guilt and grief and melancholy and simply said, “She’s just not around anymore.” 

It was as close as Bard could come to the truth. 

“Well. The invitation still stands.” He pulled a card and a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled on the back. “That’s my number. Call me if you want to see it. You can come by round closing if you like. I can show you around without all the crowds.” 

Bard took the card from the man’s hand, the brush of their fingers sparking like a long- forgotten memory. “I will,” he said. “Thank you.” 

Sigrid talked excitedly throughout the drive home, but Bard’s thoughts were stuck on art galleries and what he might wear to one. “Sig?” 

“Yeah Da?” 

“Do you think you could watch Bain and Tilda tomorrow night?” 

“Sure. Why?” 

“I might have plans,” he said. The idea still felt foreign. He pulled into the garage and unlocked the door, found Tilda asleep in her bed and Bain playing a video game in his room. “He poked his head through the open door. Everything go alright?” 

“Yeah,” Bain waved over his shoulder. “Fine.”

Bard smirked and said goodnight. “Lights out at ten,” he reminded him. He made his way around the house, checking locks and turning out lights. He showered and turned in early, but not before picking up the business card from his nightstand and turning it over in his hands. 

It wasn’t until he picked up his mobile to save the handwritten number that he noticed a message from Gwen. 

She wouldn’t be coming home that night.

**Author's Note:**

> got a fic idea? [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll add it to the list!  
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil).  
> you can keep track of my word count on my [novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or on my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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